‘MISTER FRANK’S DUCK’

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ZOOATHALON TALES PRESENTS:
‘MISTER FRANK’S DUCK’.
The duck in question sat upon the pond without undue care. Because of construction (the expansion of the park), the ducks were being moved to another local waterway that sat close to the docks. Some ducks were excited to be moving so close to the docks. Ducks and docks sound alike, which to some would present better camouflage opportunities, verbally at least. This is how ducks tend to think since paddling in marshy ponds all day can produce profundity of thought. The particular duck in question on this day, the moving day, decided he would stay put, despite the presence of the moving cranes, as well as the annoying cranes who ate too many fish before flying off to another pond. This duck had been brought to its location by a one mister FRANK. He had bought it originally from a traveling duck and goose salesperson who had once traversed the area in a yellow car and a Mallard costume. No one thought to ask the person in the fuzzy suit; 'Why a Mallard?' They might have answered if given the chance, “Because my Chicken suit is in the cleaners.” Anyway, the young boy for whom Mister Frank had bought the duck was uninterested and the pond close to Mister Frank’s home became the duck’s new natural habitat. And it liked its home very much and had no intentions to leave. This duck in mind had the added distinction of Italian ancestry. The duck salesperson had proudly pointed this factoid out. It was born as an egg in Italy, in the region of Como, and had been hatched and delivered in America, in the region of south New Jersey. This duck figured that this gave it added cachet; some chest hair, balls. It even insisted on being called by its Italian name, which for DUCK is ‘ANATRA’. The ‘Anatra’ sent word to the Fish and Wildlife Consortium that it was staying put. But on whose authority (?) asked several attendees to the meeting considering what amounted to a declaration, and not a request. The Duck answered; “Listen let’s Cut to the Chase, I’m not going anywhere, this is my home and if you touch me, There Will Be Blood. Don’t you guys and gals know who I am? My God, wake up and smell the cappuccino, I am Mister Frank’s Duck which means by Name and Rights, I am none other, nor less than Mister FRANK’S ANATRA. And if you touch me there will be feathers flying and they won’t be mine. Capisci?” With that logic now ensconced in the minds of the supplicants loyal to the fish and wildlife bureau, the matter was closed and Mister FRANK’S ANATRA was left the hell alone to circle his fizzy pond as and when he saw fit. Best of all was now the privacy. After all, it can be said of this pond that what happens in Frank’s Anatra’s pond, stays in Frank’s Anatra’s pond, and who is not wise to that doesn’t stay for long (or is found floating in the pond). Though most of the time, the only ones in or around the water (give or take a few migrating cranes) were Mister Frank’s Duck and his favorite Gardener, AVA. Mister Frank’s Anatra liked her, she really cooked his goose. Not only was she pretty, but had once been the bassist and backing vocalist in a techno garage band, ‘The Artificial Art Officials’. Life was good for this particular duck and he would make sure that it remained that way, and that the music of his life stayed sweet and easy for him to sing. And in the key of life as he likes to swing it.

Here is the deal, outside of Journalism no one Really Cares whether or not a Story is ‘true’. We care more if it RINGS true. The truth of human nature is that we are a storytelling and collecting people. We are not looking so much for facts as we are recognition of a greater truth. And the facts matter less to us than the telling of a good story. Stories are what move us on, ANYONE can make up or change the facts and to care too much for the facts out of context misses the point of the larger story. Even when we know a story isn’t ‘true’, we will still retell it if it is a story worth repeating. YOU CANNOT ALWAYS TRUST THE FACTS, as the facts are often whatever can be gotten away with. But you can always trust a good story. And when the story outgrows the facts it becomes myth. And we, its historians and poets.

…..you might be able to find Gardener Ava’s (the friend of Frank’s Duck) ‘Artificial Art Officials’ catalogue on LUBE TONE Records and 8 Tracks. Lube Tone was once an alternative label of BLUE NOTE Records. AVA was also a guest vocalist on PEREGRINE THUMB’S debut album ‘Carrots & Diamonds’. Still available through LUBE TONE Digital Media and Vintage Cassettes.

THE ZOOATHALON KNOWS THAT THE CIRCUS, Much Like Life, Cannot Properly Exist without its Cherished Illusions. What is the trick of the great LION TAMER? From whence stems his Magical, Hypnotic Hold on the Fierce African King of Beasts? Easy. Life for Lion in the Brush is no Picnic, Too Close to DARWIN for Comfort (and never enough documentary work). BUT in the Circus, Lion lives in an Air Conditioned, Temperature Controlled, and Custom Designed Habitat. He has Sex when he Needs, Eats 3 Square Meals a Day, none of which he has to Hunt and Chase down, Or starve for days to attain. And he gets to be a STAR while doing nothing more than ‘Pretending’ to Fear an Alcoholic who really wanted to be an Actor, (But who after a Nasty Divorce, turned his Attentions to Lion Taming on his Ex-Wife’s Recommendation), who’s Holding a Flimsy Whip and a Chair that has already been re-taped a Dozen Times. Nice work if you can get it, and the waiting list is long. There are none so savage as to not being able to appreciate the easier life, given the opportunity.

Should SISYPHUS crumble and drop his stone
He would not be alone. Morbid would be his wake
And mute would be the vows he’d take to reconstruct his throne
As long as his family had a stable home, his horses could pull
What sorrows he’d break, until his hands were full, of wild orchids
For his loved ones and mountain tops that his fists would scrape,
To form foundations for putting down stakes. His rolling never stops.
From his voice come the songs of nomads, clinging to the rocks.
And singing to the spinning wheels right beyond the gates.
Seems like papa was a rolling stone, bigger than he thought.

BEING WATCHED
The Cracks are Peeling On your Wall.
The Slippery Elm outside Does Bend,
Towards your Sleek Stiletto Heel;
Which Upon My Cartilage Bumps and Grinds.
I bid your service and do as told
Because I Am Not Being Watched.
And, because you are the type,
I’ve Died To Bed in Still of Night.
I break in sweat but to appease
And open wide my eager mouth,
To Drive my Tongue around your Breasts
Then rest my Digits inside your Nest.
Scarce Morality does Not Pertain to Creatures
Fondled by Adam’s Lust, I hardly need your
Scolding Words, I Do what you Daren’t,
I Seethe; You Must Tear Away
Your Gingham Dress, if not but for
A Little While, Give Yourself to Yourself
Impress and to Labor Bid Goodbye,
Your Shadow Is Your Blanket Best.
Yet let the Angles of the Light
Creep onto your Beading Skin,
But Save Some Dance for Central Night,
For One whose Lover’s Face is Bold
And Bright. And THEN score; Tail to Tongue
to Teeth to Crotch, Because You Are Not
Being Watched.

I lost money once investing in an idea that I thought sounded really great at the time. I have heard it said, as have many, that; ‘Once You Go Black, You Never Go Back’. And there I was thinking (along with other nebulous investor types): “ Wouldn’t It Be Cool if a Woman could take a Pill, enabling her to Go Back, once She Went Black?” That way, she could have a Great Black Weekend, and then Forget About It. Imagine the family shame spared. The Bank thought it was a good idea too, especially since the Bank President’s daughters had a predilection for swarthy South American ‘FUTBOL’ players.

…meanwhile, someone ought to tell your mother that her wig would look less obvious without the chin strap…. Stay tuned for more writings (from which these writings were excerpts) in the next few short weeks after the break, including more from our friend, the RENEGADE POLICE COW! Await the ZOOATHALON to come, this was but a taste!
Dedicated to the late great Gore Vidal.

www.SanandaMaitreya.com
www.Sananda.org

* ps: The good doctors have finally gotten to the root of your Mothers Long-Term Depression. Turns out (after many expensive tests) that your mother is a HOCKEY MOM, but NONE of you Bitches Can Skate.

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